Reflection
by Julia Claire
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy has never cared for anyone but herself and her family.  Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine. **

**A/N: Written for the Hogwarts Online Prompt of the Day: "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."**

**Reflection**

In their stories, the ancient Greeks told of a wizard called Narcissus who wasted away in front of his own reflection. He was too in love, too fixated with himself to look away, to see the rest of the world, choosing to believe the lie of his utter importance instead of the truth of his own insignificance.

She does not know if she is truly named for him; her parents certainly never mentioned the tale. She herself only came across it as a teenager at Hogwarts while researching a History of Magic essay. Yet something must have struck them about the name because instead of following near centuries of tradition, they did not give their youngest daughter a name that placed her among the glittering stars but one that ensnared her by lies, by false appearances.

Often, she wonders if it was fate that drove them - if the name shaped her or if she was born to fit it. Either way, she cannot deny that it suits her exactly. For what is she, Narcissa Malfoy, but beauty and glamour, luxury and extravagance, vanity and _narcissism_?

* * *

Narcissa can still remember the times Andromeda would sneak into her room to lay her ear on her floor because it lay right above the sitting room. Their parents and Bellatrix would often discuss the latest news, the things that they did not want their younger daughters to hear.

Andromeda would get a stiff neck trying to catch every word. On the other hand, Narcissa, who could catch more than she wanted to from her bed, would cover her ears, occasionally even leaving the room, although she was supposed to be the lookout.

"Don't you want to know what's really going on?" Andromeda would often ask her, a slightly disgusted look on her face.

"No." Narcissa liked her life - the one she saw, anyway - too much to question its undercurrents, the reason they had so much and others so little. Unlike Bellatrix, she does not care to know the particulars of her family's beliefs, much less partake in their execution, but unlike Andromeda, she is too cowardly to face the truth of what is really going on, much less stand against it.

* * *

She watches the scene from above, twirling her long blonde hair in her fingers.

Her mother is ranting, going on and on about _Mudbloods_, and _scandal,_ and the _ancient_, the most _noble_ House of Black, but no one is really listening. Bellatrix sneers at her younger sister, saying nothing but the few choice words that she knows will hurt Andromeda the most. Bellatrix is good at that, at finding the weakest point in other people, the perfect place to drive her figurative knife. Their father has already gone up to his study, saying nothing after Andromeda's announcement but, "You are no longer my daughter."

Narcissa is silent, unsure what to feel. She does sort of pity Andromeda, but really, what had she expected, when she came in and announced that she was engaged to Ted Tonks, who, besides being a fat, already balding Hufflepuff, is a Mudblood? She must have known that their parents would not - could not - stand for it, that they'd throw her out of the family, but for the life of her, Narcissa can't understand why anyone would give up their wealth and connections for a man of such _filth_.

She loves Andromeda, and she'll miss her, but she will not stand up for her - she can't, can't risk losing her own inheritance too. Nothing is worth that to her. Besides, Narcissa has never been taught to think for herself. She still thinks of herself as a child, too young to make her own decisions, too young to decide what she believes.

So she stands on the balcony and plays with her hair and is silent while her sister waves goodbye - quietly, determinedly - and leaves the house forever.

* * *

She pretends she does not know where Lucius has been when he comes home late, still masked and sometimes angry. She pretends not to see it when the ugly, black mark on his forearm burns, and he leaves everything, leaves her, for _him._

The Dark Lord has all of her respect and a good portion of her fear - she does not dislike him in the least. He does not have as much of her loyalty as she gives to her own family, but he has some of that too, for the simple reason that her husband and sister would go to hell and back for him. She does not care to know anymore.

"Narcissa," Lucius will whisper to her, sometimes, the times when he has come back satisfied - of what, she never asks. "You should come with me, the next time. Join _him_."

She always refuses, saying that someone needs to watch Draco, or she is too tired, or sometimes, that she is not a good enough witch. He accepts the lies without question, never guessing that, in truth, she is scared to know what he is doing, scared of having to do it herself, scared of seeing the black mark on her own unblemished skin and knowing what it really means.

Lucius is the love of her life. Digging any deeper would only destroy that.

* * *

The World Cup starts out perfectly, impeccably. She sits in the top box with the Minister and her family and all the other important people. She can feel people's eyes on her, sometimes, the gazes of the less-fortunate staring at her wealth and significance in awe.

(She sees the redheaded blood traitors and wonders why _they're_ there, impeding on her glory, stepping on her purple carpet, but she quickly looks away, scrunching up her nose. She is practically royalty, after all, and _they_ are beneath her notice.)

That night, however, when Lucius sneaks out, and she is left in the tent to worry, she does not feel like a queen anymore. She tries to keep Draco (and herself) away from what is going on, but by sheer accident, as they are rushing out of the tent and into the woods, her gaze falls on the Muggle woman's face. The Mudblood is screaming in fear, but as she looks out into the crowd, her eyes seem to find Narcissa's. For a single moment, they stare at each other, and Narcissa can almost feel her pain, her agony. It is more discomfort than Narcissa, with her perfect, easy life, has ever felt, likely more than she will _ever_ feel.

Narcissa thinks - she knows - that she is superior to this woman, that she has magic and beauty and blood as unblemished as her pristine skin, and this woman - this Mudblood, she has to remind herself - only has labour and freckles and hard, calloused hands. But does she deserve _this_? Does anyone?

The woman's eyes are pleading for help, pleading for her to stop the pain.

Quickly, Narcissa drops her gaze and hurries on.

* * *

He does not know _what the hell_ he is getting into, and in reality, neither does she. It is precisely what scares her.

For sixteen years, all she has done is watch over her family, trying to keep them safe, protected, no matter what happens to anyone else. Now her husband is in jail, and Draco - her only son, her precious boy - has been asked to take his place.

All his life, she has been keeping him as innocent as she is about the ways of the world, the things that their own family members do behind closed doors. Narcissa cannot stand the thought of blood on his hands, cannot stand the thought of _that thing _on his forearm, forever disfiguring his skin, the skin she has always kept so clean and pure.

He runs around their manor, tripping over peacocks and yelling and feeling superior. He thinks he's been given a job, but she knows that it's really a long, torturous death sentence. He is so very excited, but Narcissa is not, though she cannot really explain to him why.

She knows this is the Dark Lord's revenge for her husband's mistake, and for the first time in her life, she rather hates him, the man they call You-Know-Who. He has killed countless people, torn families apart, but this is the thing she hates him for. It is the only thing he has ever done that has hurt her.

* * *

The Second War is terrible, brutal, and unforgiving, just like the Dark Lord, who she is forced to see a side of that she has never cared to see before. Lucius cries next to her at night, when he thinks she is asleep - and she, she never cries because doing so would mean she'd have a reason to.

Her beautiful, spotless house is dirtied and used as headquarters for the people she never wanted to see so clearly, to know so much about. They disgust her; it all disgusts her. They drag down Mudbloods and traitors into her basement and do Merlin-knows-what with them. She has always believed herself superior to them - she still does - but whatever they might think, whatever anyone might think, she never wanted this.

Even so, she never raises a finger to stop the other Death Eaters, to stop any of it. The only thing to do in these troubled times, she tells herself, is to keep looking straight ahead (into the mirror), and focus on saving herself and her family. Narcissa tries not to think about the rest of the world.

Yet she knows that she can no longer pretend her hands aren't stained with blood.

* * *

The Battle of Hogwarts is - there are no words for her to describe it. Almost the whole of her life has been spent in luxury, comfort. These past years, she has grown more used to pain, to struggle, but nothing has prepared her for _this_. There are blood and bodies everywhere, and she can hardly stand to look at anything, hoping, praying that each lifeless corpse isn't Draco or Lucius - she cares for little else. She just wants to get the three of them out of this alive.

After what feels like years, the Dark Lord calls them all to the Forbidden Forest, and at last, she finds Lucius. Draco is still missing, however, and she is scared, so scared...

Narcissa wants to go look for him, even asks the Dark Lord this once, although Lucius warns her against it. His answer is as her husband expected, and she shrinks away from his anger. She doesn't understand what the point of waiting here is, however. What would possibly tempt Harry Potter to come alone to face them is beyond her. _She _would never do it.

Yet, inexplicably, he comes at last. Narcissa does not understand why, but she feels the merest trace of pity as her stumbles towards them, looking both very scared and strangely peaceful.

Her compassion for him last no longer than it takes him to fall on the ground, dead. He is not _her_ son, after all. He is nothing to _her_.

The Dark Lord crumples only a second after the boy he has just murdered. Though her husband gasps and Bella screams, and everything is pandemonium, Narcissa finds she doesn't care about _him_ either. She isn't fussed who wins this war, not anymore.

* * *

She lies.

She lies to the Dark Lord, the most powerful Dark wizard the world has ever seen, a man who could kill her whole family with a flick of his wrist. When she thinks of it like that, it's the bravest thing Narcissa has ever done.

Potter isn't fooled, however. She can see it in his eyes, when he looks at her later, after it's all over. She can see it in everyone's eyes.

Narcissa may have saved his life, but it wasn't for anyone but herself and her son.

* * *

Her family escapes Azkaban because of their her lie, even if it was all narcissism instead of courage. Even so, they do not escape punishment. Much of their wealth is lost (though they are still richer than the Weasleys), their house is nearly ruined, and their reputation is in shards. She can hardly leave Malfoy Manor without inspiring threatening remarks and angry, grief-stricken glares, some from the very witches and wizards who used to stare at her in awe. She tries, once, to go shopping in Diagon Alley at her favourite (exclusive) clothing store, and yet finds, when she gets to the register, that she can no longer afford their products.

The witch behind her in line mutters, "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

Narcissa sniffs, trying to ignore this as she pretends that she never wanted _those_ robes anyway. Then, attempting to make a dignified exit, she trips, and everyone in the shop laughs loudly.

* * *

That night, she stares at herself in the mirror, hating what she sees. Her eyes are red and puffy, her clothes and hair ruffled, and her faced is old and lined. Narcissa realises that she has spent her entire life caring and keeping for _this_, for her own appearance, and in the end, she's left with nothing.

In the end, it is only a reflection.


End file.
